


The Kaleidoscope Eyes

by derevosky



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: AU wherein Russia’s hair is long enough to cover his eyes, M/M, Oneshot, Purple Prose, canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 18:33:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13664844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derevosky/pseuds/derevosky
Summary: America always wondered why Russia covered his eyes.(Inspired by Russian smileys.)





	The Kaleidoscope Eyes

No one really knew what were Russia’s eyes looked like. They said they were as gray as the Northern skies, or maybe as green as the fresh tundras during spring, or as colorful as the Orthodox cathedrals. It was always a mystery since then. His fellow nations seemed to pry as they could, but Russia always denied their satisfaction with regards to their curiosity.

  
America was no different. Ever since he was a colony, he always wondered why the tall man covered his eyes with his ashen blond hair. His were as blue as the ocean reflecting the clearest sky, since they were reflections of what he had. He guessed that maybe Russia’s eyes were white since there’s snow all over his place, or maybe like those aurora borealis thingie that he had heard from his brother whose eyes were bluish purple because of the natural phenomena. He was eager, so eager, to know. He loved to know others as empathic as he could be. He had this need to be familiar with everyone ever since he was deprived of that luxury. The thought of the biggest nation also held the title of being one of the two nations with unknown eyes.

  
He had to know.

* * *

 

On a fated day, the Slavic nation visited him for selling one of his lands. Feeling determined, America childishly reached to ruffle Russia’s hair while they were talking about their negotiations regarding Alaska. But the older nation bobbed his head, nonchalantly avoiding his hand. America huffed, while Russia simply gave him his usual smile, his prominent nose barely creasing. For some reason, the American knew that smile never reached his eyes. That day ended with a firm shake, America and Russia with both straight postures, the younger barely keeping up his form.

  
Someday, he would gaze into those two eyes.

* * *

  
Another time, America visited Russia instead. He was with his ambassador, ready to meet Catherine the Great. The young nation was evidently nervous, and vibrating. He was about to learn another culture; he was about to learn and witness a new world in his perspective. The thrill of discovering, exploring. Someone like him, with different stories to tell. He wanna learn more stuff, okay? On those days he did. After his encounter with the empress, he felt welcomed, if not intimidated. He had absorbed everything, inhaled each sights and sceneries, each philosophy of their souls. He was enamored of the feeling, of now intimately recognizing what his new friend was like amidst the cold exterior. As they wade through the crowd of intricacies the palace had behold, they link their arms, exchanged wits as they echoed through the grandiose hallways. Russia was influenced by the young nation’s enthusiasm, and giggled preciously. America was more than pleased. The anxiety thrumming in his chest slowly transformed into melodious heartbeat. America knew, despite Russia’s covered eyes, he was fully smiling. He could imagine how those eyes would crinkle, as he could see his nose did. With his free hand, he attempted to reach for his hair, and Russia almost avoided, but gave the boy a chance. Without words, he simply caressed instead; it was softer than he expected. He respected the unuttered warning. He sighed wistfully, knowing that it would take awhile to uncover those enchanting mysteries.

  
Was it greedy of him to know what was the color of the eyes his new friend had?

* * *

 

Although they kept in touch through letters, despite their straightforwardness, the brutal yet rightful and friendly honesty with each other, he couldn’t help but think about Russia, especially his eyes. He was intrigued, yet he never asked about it. It was a bit obvious that Russia didn’t want to tackle the subject thanks to his body language. Clearly, he knew Russia could read him like an open book; that’s why he considered him his closest friend. Most of his fellow nations misunderstood his optimism as one-sided, or worse, stupid, while Russia shrugged it as idealism, which wasn’t bad; the cold nation admitted he shared the same attitude. Both of them wanted to be strong, and dreamed of exploring more of what the world could offer. In this case though, Russia was also America’s world, and he would very much want to know what lies behind those soft snowy strands.

  
Was it too much to ask to see the so-called window of his soul?

* * *

 

The letters were gradually getting infrequent, and America had a lot in mind, specifically trying to pull himself together. He gathered from France that he had seen, oh how dared he, he had seen Russia’s eyes. He was the first to know what they looked like, and it was unfair. America knew he was young, and France had lived long enough, but still it was unfair. He had luckily existed in the age wherein no one knew about Russia’s eyes until France did. Why, of all nations, him? Why did he have the right? As America listened begrudgingly yet put up with a cheerful facade, France said they were amethysts, but he refused to believe there were just like glorified broken stones. He knew deep inside there was more. He knew they could be kaleidoscope eyes. He knew the vastness of Russia; he knew and memorized everything the largest nation could offer.

  
In that moment, he believed none of them still didn’t know.

* * *

Russia didn’t get to see his pair of glasses on his face which made him appear mature, until it got shattered by Soviet Union’s fist. He never thought of it happening, but they had drifted apart. His friend changed his name, along with his system. He still held the visions they had shared, but his methods, his ideologies were frustrating. He didn’t know why he had to listen to Germany’s so-called theorist. He didn’t know why he was loathed for his practicality. The only thing barely good about this, was he could now see his eyes. For those heated moments of their staring contests, his wish finally came true, but not the way he had expected. Rus- Soviet Union cut his hair, a sign of change in character, and of letting things go. He was proud, so proud of himself enough to finally show the world. They called those eyes Leningrad. They were violet, dull like old blood, bruising as they could pierce. At another glimpse, or as America was fooling himself, they were blue beneath red, the blue which he also had, the bluest horizons he had when was a colony. It confused him, but he hid his emotions well, replaced it with a mocking smirk.

  
He wondered why, despite everything.

* * *

The two superpowers had intensively agreed to outwit each other. They want to prove the world who was greater, who was wiser, but the world could unanimously agree they were both idiots. For they had convinced, persuaded, victimized, intruded, manipulated as they could. They were desperate to win, until America noticed Russia’s hair getting longer again. And the more it got longer, he swore, his eyes, almost covered, were brighter. Somehow, the tensions were depleting, and the familiar bantering was slowly showcasing. It was nostalgic at the same time new, and America’s desire for exploration heightened even more. This time, now that he knew every detail, every information in the world, along and thanks to his rival, he wanted to explore what lies above and beyond.  
That was the moment he had waited for so long.

He saw them. Only him had the sight.

They were not gemstones, nor blue beneath red.

His eyes were as if the day had met the night.

No, his eyes were a glimpse of the world outside, of the heavenly bodies’ resting place.

He swore he saw the universe unfold.

His pale eyelashes stained with dot-like tears served as constellations, and with the distant stars, he knew what it meant.

Those stars which the earth had seen, as science always had defined, were lightyears away.

Dead, but they persistently remained alive as memories, as histories.

He stared, he gazed, he gaped.

His sun-kissed hand graced his pale cheek.

There were blue skies against the galaxies, dancing hues bursted.

The cosmic eyes were now proud, confident.

The worlds had collided with a sincere yet exalting kiss.

In that moment, the Soviet Union had fallen.


End file.
